


How to Be Taken Care Of

by orphan_account



Category: Joker (2019)
Genre: Bathtubs, Black Comedy, Blood, F/M, Hair Brushing, Horror, Kidnapping, Knives, Pet Names, lots of P A I N, tags will be updated as I go, this isn't sexy just uncomfortable, uncomfortable lap-sitting, yandere arthur
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-28
Updated: 2019-12-28
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:55:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21594178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: A man you've never seen before has decided how you're going to live from now on.
Relationships: Arthur Fleck/Reader
Comments: 19
Kudos: 102





	1. Somewhat Damaged

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is your new home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> damn-near nobody writes yandere Arthur shit so i gotta do everything my damn self smh.  
> i'm writing this as i go i'm sorry if it winds up shitty.

When your eyes crack open, it feels as if you've stumbled into a swamp. Your head is swimming and you lick your lips, feeling how chapped they've become while your throat feels clogged. Blinking as fast as you can in an attempt to clear out the fuzz in your vision, the pounding headache you have gets stronger and slowly fades away. Instinctively, you reach up to rub your eyes, but your hands are quite literally tied.

Panic surges through you as you yank and pull, the stark reality of your situation hitting you. You can't see, but you figure you're tied to a pole, judging by the stiff and unmoving mass pressing up against your spine. The ropes are tightly and neatly tied against your wrists, looping around to your chest - but you're only attached by the wrists. If you got your wrists free, you could get out of here. 

It's doubtful.

The ropes roughly scratch against your wrists as you squirm pathetically, creating red welts on the flesh. The panic gets worse, before settling into quiet anxiety that gnaws at your whole being. The room slants to the side for a minute before righting itself. The room is essentially blank, being nothing but four beige walls. 

It's tight and suffocating and sad and disquietingly empty. The floor is just cold enough that your legs pressing against it cannot settle into warmth. Leaning against the pole, your eyes roll back as you try to figure out your situation, but you can't - it seems as if you were just minding your business, walking into your apartment, then _poof!_ You were bound in an empty room in God-knows-where.

There's a rumbling groan from somewhere, and you strain yourself trying to hear what it is so you can get a hint of where you are, but it's useless. After two minutes of focusing, all your energy leaves you at once, leaving you feeling cold. The thought that you might be dead and this is your brain piecing together some after-death narrative goes through you - but that's doubtful, too. Your tongue glides across your lips while you inhale deeply, feeling incredibly tired. Slumping somewhat, you close your eyes, ready to plunge back into sleep. Just before you fall into sleep, though, the door opens.

There's no light from the door, and the light from the room instead floods into the hallway. A figure steps in, tall and lanky, and he moves in a borderline-comical way as if he's trying to make you laugh without saying anything. He's got clown makeup on, a bit of the blue around his eyes streaking downward, making you curious if he's been crying. His hair is green and fluffy, and to top it all off, he's wearing a maroon suit which immediately makes you think of blood and sends a small shiver down your spine.

You don't say anything, though, instead staring down at his dress shoes as they quietly drift around the floor. Soon, they're right in front of you before vanishing as he kneels to your height. A quiet breath escapes his nose as he grasps at a spare strand of hair and runs his fingers over it in an absentminded fashion, as if you were a doll of some sort. His hands have the knuckles healing from some sort of wound, and you chew your cheek, trying to sate the anxiety that comes from thinking about where he got them from.

"Hi." His voice is cheery, and his smile is fittingly wide. There's no emotion on your face as you stare at him. He lets out a disappointed(?) sigh before bringing his fingers to your face, and you instinctively flinch, but it doesn't stop him from tugging the corners of your mouth into a smile. There's a moment where he pulls your skin taut in a "happy" face before he lets go and the skin snaps back. The sound of it revolts you.

He abruptly moves to be behind you - making you flinch again - and there's some rustling before the ropes holding you go loose. The question escapes your mouth before you can stop it.

"What are you..."

"We're going to _dance_ ," he says, dreamily. There's the silent question of if he actually means dancing or if it's some sort of euphemism, but he stands in front of you again and holds out his hand, making you realize he means dancing in the literal sense. His hand is surprisingly soft when you grasp it, pulling yourself up only to nearly fall again, legs wobbling so badly you can't stand straight.

His laugh is loud and piercing, making you jump while he makes noises that are unlike anything you've heard from a human being. Grasping you close to him, his laughter subsides as he begins to sway. "My little Bambi," he croons. You squeeze his hand, trying to suppress your disgust at the name.

The dance is painfully awkward, mostly thanks to you. His movements are slow, but you can't read them, and he hums some kind of song that is probably old in your ear. When he dips you, you nearly fall over due to your instability but he catches you, gleefully laughing again. Twirling you about, he suddenly stops and cups your face, leaning forward to kiss you. Overtaken by instinct, you shove him away before his lips can touch you, letting out a little scream-sound of resistance, feeling a rush of adrenaline pump through you.

There's a lull for a few moments where he approaches you, and you cower, expecting a hand. Instead, he grabs your hand delicately, slowly pulling it up to his face. It's a peaceful sight, and you relax, taking a slow inhale.

He moves too fast for you to stop him.

He yanks something sharp and shiny out from _somewhere_ on his person and slashes your palm, fast and brutal. Pain blossoms from you as blood immediately drips from the wound, and you grasp your wrist so tightly the flesh becomes pale. It's surprisingly deep, and the pain slowly subsides as endorphins take over. A sound of shock escapes your lips as you stare at the wound, blood spattering onto the cold floor.

Little puffs of air escape you as you stare at your wound, pulling your wrist away while the bright red blood flows out. His hand replaces yours, yanking up harshly to his mouth, tongue lapping at the area. Once again, you make the foolish choice to push him away, more noises of resistance leaving you. A small amount of blood smears against the white on his face.

Reaching for your other wrist, there's a tussle as you try to push against him to move back, but he overpowers you. He manages to bring your other hand close enough to slash it, too, more blood leaving you at an alarming speed.

"Now they match," he remarks in a harsh, distant tone. Before you can reply, he walks away, slamming the door behind him so hard the frame cracks. Immediately, you scramble towards the door and jiggle the handle, groaning as pain shoots up your arm, but it's useless - the handle hardly moves. Blood smears against it.

Tears of pain and frustration escape you as you back into the nearest wall and slowly slump down, keeping your hands raised above you. Vision blurred, you lean your head back against the wall, sobs wracking your body. Bile comes up your throat, and you instinctively swallow it back down, a sharp pain burning in your throat as you do so. The door swings open again, and you see as a bottle of something flies and crashes to the ground, making you cower. Another sharp pain erupts from your head as something strikes you before tumbling to the ground. It'd be slapstick if it wasn't so horrifying. There's another loud slam as he (well, you assume it's him) storms out once more. When your tears clear out of your eyes, you see what he chucked at you: rubbing alcohol and a stapler.

You close your eyes and take a deep breath, knowing these next few minutes are going to be very, very miserable. 

Some more tears escape your eyes and you wipe them away, smearing blood on your cheek, down to the jawline. It takes you a solid minute to open the bottle, since your hands are shaking so badly from the pain. When you do, there's more trembling and some of the alcohol spills on the ground, the bottle slippery with blood. Pouring it on your hand, you shriek from the intense stinging, nearly dropping the bottle as you put it down. Repeating the process, you _do_ drop the bottle, the strong smell filling the air while you let out another scream as the pain shoots throughout you before quickly subsiding.

Slowly, you grab the stapler, pulling it apart. Your heart picks up, a rapidly-beating drum. Starting with your left, you pinch the skin together so it can stick and rush to put the staple in, a loud cry of agony escaping you as the metal pierces the skin and digs into the fresh wound. The process repeats all across your palm, and you miss a few times, piercing the unharmed skin, making your hand look like a morbid art piece. The other hand is a bit easier as there's no blood gushing to make the stapler slippery, but the repeated feeling of thin metal needles piercing you dozens of times still leaves you breathless and dizzy. 

Once you've finished, the stapler is carelessly tossed aside as your head swims once more. Blood is everywhere: your face, your arms, the floor, the walls, your clothing. Staring at your hands, you silently pray to some deaf god that you don't get an infection. The mental image of your hands dripping and leaking pus is enough to make you want to bash your head in. Oh, God, what if he wants to taste that, too? A cringe wracks your body at what might just be one of the worst thoughts you've ever had.

The door swings open again, and your captor is with you once more, suddenly all smiles. He's carrying some bar and a bottle of water, which he gingerly sets on the ground, humming another song absentmindedly. You sit perfectly still, trying to observe what he's going to do. Grabbing the rope, he silently motions for you to get back up against the pole, and you comply immediately, fearing more stapling. It occurs to you that your hands have been permanently marked for disobedience, a morbid scarlet letter, you think bitterly while he ties you up again, rigging the rope around your body as it was. He seems to be experienced in tying people up.

After a few tests to make sure the rope is tight, he grabs the bar and smiles at you. "Nice makeup," he says while nodding to your bloodied cheek. "Do you want some?" He wiggles the bar in his hand, and you nod meekly. "Say the magic words," he teases, practically singing while doing so.

"Yes, please." Your voice is weak and pathetic.

Nimbly, he unwraps the bar and kneels down so he can put it to your lips. You take a small bite, not even registering the taste, and your bites are small and meek because of paranoia - what if you bite his hand and he rips your tongue out? 

Apparently, neither option is safe. "Hurry up," he chides you, pinching your nose and practically shoving the bar down your throat. You choke it down, feeling it scrape your throat as it goes down and vomit involuntarily spills into your mouth. Narrowly avoiding getting sick all over him, you swallow it again, tears filling your eyes (there seems to be a pattern to this day). Another piece goes down the wrong pipe, and you spend a minute sputtering while he doesn't help and just observes. Once it's done and you breathe normally and aren't nearly vomiting, he smiles and waves the water bottle around. "Wanna wash that down?", he offers, coyly.

"Yes, please," you squeak out, a pathetic creature once more.

He unscrews the cap and brings it to your lips, but pulls away at the last moment and flings it forward, splashing water all over your face. You sit there in shock from the coldness while he laughs uproariously, and it occurs to you that you should laugh along with his egocentric "comedy" for your own sake. So you join in, laughing for your fucking life. It lasts a minute before he stops, grinning madly, seemingly pleased you laughed at his "performance." He sighs happily and leans to kiss your forehead while you sit perfectly still.

"Get some sleep, sweetheart." He rises, ever-serene, and walks away, closing the door gently.

Your head rolls back again as you fall into sleep, tumbling into the waters without a splash.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lol staples


	2. Cleanse The Soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He has some bonding activities planned for you.

When you awake, you have not moved. You're still tied, uncomfortably, and there's a killer pain in your neck from sleeping in an awkward position. All the hair on your skin is raised as you shudder - there's no way in hell you're able to get warm. The blood on the walls is still there. So is the blood on your face. Probably.

You realize there's nothing you can do but play The Waiting Game to see when he'll come back, so you do, and try to entertain yourself by naming as many countries as you can and reciting your favorite songs to yourself in silence, but time keeps dragging its feet. You don't know how much time passes until the door suddenly clicks and swings open and your captor dances, actually dances, into the room.

He's the same garb as yesterday. A cigarette hangs between his lips as he drags his feet across the floor, smoke clouding around him in rings, a divine image. His shoulders move in time to an unheard rhythm and he looks up at the ceiling, lost in his own silent song until he stops and glances at you.

"Hello, kitten," he purrs, walking your way. Smoke trails behind him as you look at him slowly approaching you, before he reaches a hand up to your chin, tilting your head up. His fingers gently trail your jawline as you stop breathing, terrified of moving even a single inch. They trail down, slowly, to your neck, seemingly trying to feel for your pulse, but missing. Wonder about how much practical knowledge this man has, and wonder if he can actually apply it, goes through your mind. _This man._

You don't even know his name.

Clearing your throat, you watch as his eyes flicker away from your body (pray tell _where_ , exactly, he was looking, you think of asking) to your face. The words come out of your mouth soft and slow.

"What's your name?"

He laughs a little bit before plucking the cigarette out from between his lips, tossing it aside and reaching into his pocket for another one. He lights it and begins to answer, chipper in his tone.

"Everyone here knows me as Joker. But you, my sweet, can call me Arthur."

 _Everyone here._ So you're within range of other living breathing humans who just might take pity on you and help you. However, you quickly realize that they probably know you're here and know that Joker/Arthur doesn't want you to leave, even if they only wouldn't free you out of self-preservation. The train of thought is cut short quickly from him talking to you again.

"You don't know who I am?" His voice isn't upset, just curious.

"No," you mumble, looking to the ground. He laughs in a loud and quick burst before stroking your cheek.

"Over time, we'll get to know each other better," he replies, voice low and ~~promising~~ threatening. He takes the half-finished cigarette out of his mouth and licks his lips, and it's the most uncomfortable thing you've ever witnessed. You clench your fists, feeling sharp pain rip through your wounds. Hopefully, they've started to heal a bit, but you're still very tender and every little movement makes them scream in pain. He smiles.

"This is a trust exercise," he says excitedly, pulling out a sharp and shiny knife. Immediately, you begin to panic and squirm, before he gets down on his knees and puts his hand on your shoulder. "Open your mouth."

Wide-eyed, you comply, opening your mouth just enough that you think he won't get pissed and stab you to death. It works, and he brings the knife to your lips and slowly presses it through your mouth, all the way to the back of your throat.

Tears fill your eyes as you gag, eyes darting every which way while the metal warms in your mouth. He drags it side to side in your mouth, making it uncomfortably scrape against your teeth while a cringe-worthy noise fills your head. His breathing is uncomfortably heavy while his movements are agonizingly slow, seemingly trying to get the knife coated on your saliva.

"Get it _really_ wet," he says, voice trembling.

It seems you're right.

Carefully, you run your tongue over the blade, suppressing a cringe as it runs across your tongue. It tastes clean yet somehow aged, as if he'd had it for quite a while. "I've got some big plans for you today," he whispers in your ear. It makes you jump and nearly slice your tongue clean open, and you shut your eyes, feeling tears threaten to leak out of them. He picks up the pace, seemingly losing control of himself, and you're not sure what his plans are and it makes you extremely nervous -

Pain erupts from the inside of your cheek and warm blood fills your mouth. You don't know if he did it on purpose or not, but he immediately withdraws, blood and saliva coating the knife. A small scream escapes you, and you spit out a disgusting concoction all over yourself onto your lap. He's trembling, still, a laugh escaping him again.

"Let me see your mouth!" he shouts almost playfully before grabbing your face and yanking it upward harshly. Sticking his thumb between your lips, he pries your mouth open and tilts his head to see the mark as you gargle your own blood. He angles himself to see the wound before humming lowly.

"Spit helps you heal," he says flatly before spitting directly into your mouth, making you immediately lurch forward in disgust as you feel it hit your tongue. Slapping his hand over your mouth, his voice is an angry growl. _"Swallow it."_ A near-gag rips through you as you comply, after which you open your mouth and gasp loudly, more blood dripping out.

"Good girl," he coos before running a hand through your extremely messy hair. He lurches forward and kisses you, tongue plunging into your mouth and swiping across the wound while tears fill your eyes. When he pulls away, saliva connects the two of you. He licks the blood off of his lips. "You don't look too good," he announces while standing. "I'll be back in a few minutes." He winks, turns around, and shuts the door and you hear the faithful _click_ of the lock.

Continuing to let out little huffs and moans of pain, you tilt your head down so the blood can drain out. Tears begin streaming out of your eyes, and you can't stop them. They dry up when the door loudly bangs open and you jump, watching him walk towards you and begin to untie you like it's nothing. You internally try to calculate how much time has passed while the ropes loosen and you're free to move about. Before you can actually do anything or come to a conclusion, though, he grabs you by the waist and makes you squeal as he tosses you over his shoulder. He's stronger than he looks.

You look around as you go down a darkened hallway seeing two men dressed in black clothing glance at you as he parades you down. They train their eyes on you for a moment, and once you pass, they keep talking. Their voices are just far enough you can't hear them.

Eventually, the twists and turns lead you to a room where he shuts the door behind you and gently sets you down onto your feet. Turning your body to look around, you realize you're in a small bathroom with a (seemingly) clean tub that's been filled with water. You dip your hand in to test it, and it's comfortably warm. You turn back to him and see that he's lighting a cigarette and leaning against the door.

"Well?" he smiles, cigarette smoke beginning to rise. "Get in."

You swallow roughly and look towards the ground, but look back at him. "Aren't you going to leave?"

" _Get in the fucking bath."_ His voice is surprisingly exasperated, and he's looking at you as if you're a petulant little child. Looking at your hands, you see they've begun to scab and you silently pray they won't open and bleed in the tub. The blood in your mouth has slowed down, too, so you can swallow small amounts of it, even if it upsets your stomach. Slowly, you strip, feeling your hands ache with every single movement. You're trembling a bit, and his eyes are locked perfectly on you.

You enter the bath, and your muscles sigh in relief from the warm water. When you sit, you take a deep breath and plunge your head under so you can get completely wet, and begin the mundane process of washing. Your eyes stay shut for nearly the entire process except for quick peeks at your body, and you feel his eyes take all of you in and it makes you shiver. While you lather your hair in shampoo, you hear rustling and shuffling before hands reach into your hair and massage your scalp, and you take your hands out and plunge them into the water. His hands are surprisingly deft, and it actually makes you let out a little moan of pleasure. He pushes your head back, slowly plunging you into the water and holding you down there.

Immediately, you imagine him trying to drown you - but it doesn't happen. His hands leave you and you come back up, gasping for breath when you do and looking at him. His maroon jacket is off, and his arm up to the elbow is in the water. You reach to unplug the drain and squeeze your hair as the water drains away, and he grabs a towel and hands it to you. Leaving the bath, you wrap the towel around you, water dripping off your form. His hand reaches out and you take it, and the sudden tenderness seems odd to you. 

Leading you, you arrive at a room with a bed and a television and VHS tapes stacked beside it. _Lots_ of tapes.

"Here's where you'll be staying," he says, lighting another cigarette.

"You smoke a lot," you say, absentminded.

"I do. Stay here."

Sitting on the bed, you watch as he leaves and locks the door from the outside. You glance at your hands again - they're still stapled shut. A sigh leaves you as you glance around - it's still blank, but there's at least more comfort in it. The door opens again, and he puts clothes beside you. They're a unifying and communist black shirt and sweatpants, and you reach out to touch them - they're soft. You notice that his suit jacket is on again. 

He licks his lips again, slowly, and leans down to your neck, making you instinctively crane to give him more room. Disgust flows through you while he inhales deeply. "My angel..." he murmurs against the flesh, making it tingle. He smiles when he pulls away. Some of the makeup has smeared from his nose.

Will you ever see him without it?

Silently, he walks away, shutting and locking the door behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah Joker is a GAMER  
> G - Get  
> A - In  
> M - The  
> E - Fucking  
> R - Bath


	3. Closer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You get a chance to enjoy your room upgrade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is a bit softer but i got some shit up my sleeve  
> also i had to upload this from my phone so i'm sorry it it's fucked up

The rest of the day/night (there are no windows) passes quietly. The clothes you have give you some issues - the shirt is fine, fitting you well, but the sweatpants have had the string removed. Whenever you walk around, you have to hold them up by hand. Besides that, you are relatively bored, having no option but to watch the many VHS tapes on the television. You quickly discover that they're nothing but endless recordings of _Live with Murray Franklin,_ which you never watched but only heard of because it was in the news. Someone killed the host, but that's about as much as you knew. This lead to a realization that perhaps you were a bit too withdrawn from the world and its happenings for your own good.

Now, you were withdrawn from practically _everything,_ except a creepy clown and a few others.

It embitters you. 

That night(?) you fall asleep to Murray Franklin's rather unimpressive "jokes", and sleep rather fitfully, although it's still better than sleeping while tied up to a pole. When you awake, rumpled and in a strange cold sweat, you change the tape and absentmindedly begin sorting the tapes by the dates and names of the guests in alphabetical order because there's nothing better to do. Helpfully, there are crude writings on the spines of every VHS case, telling you the date and main guest. None of them are interesting in the slightest.

While watching some random B-list actor drone on about some new movie, there's a knock at the door that makes you jump out of your skin. Clearing your throat, your voice is surprisingly weak when you invite them to come in. You know it's not Arthur, because he _never_ knocks.

A tan-skinned, dark-haired woman comes in, holding something you can't recognize. She looks around the room for a bit, seeming surprised at the presence of the television before focusing on you. Approaching you slowly, as if you were a frightened rabbit, she hands you a plate and a plastic fork. There's some moderately-appetizing food on it, scrambled eggs and some incredibly dry-looking toast.

"Mr. J told me to give this to you," she murmurs, looking away from you, likely out of pity. This mildly irritates you, but you push it back and thank her with your most sincere voice. Deep down, you want to ask her for a glass of water, but she looks drained from just being in the room and you wonder if you have that effect now - the sad little animal in a cage that everyone stares at, but doesn't stick their fingers through the bars to touch them because they might cry. You chew your cheek and watch her leave the room, closing and locking the door behind her.

You eat slowly and count the bites. When you finish, the plate is awkwardly placed on the ground because you don't have a trashcan nearby. In the meantime, you have nothing to do so you keep mind-numbing yourself with Murray Franklin in an attempt to ignore the circumstances. It doesn't really work, so you half-focus on the show and half-wallow in the misery of your life. After about two episodes, you hear the lock click and the door open. A pit forms in your stomach as he strides in.

He's smoking (no surprise there), and his movements are slow and precise. He's still in his usual garb, smiling widely, looking at you while you stare at him, wordless and tired. There's a hairbrush in one of his hands, and you know he's not going to explain anything. Instead, he sits behind you and puts his hand on your hair and begins to gingerly weave it through, making you shiver. After a moment of him trying to get a feel for the state of your hair (it's incredibly disheveled), he finally gets to work.

He's humming again, another song you don't know, while he gently toys with your hair. His hands are skilled, pulling the hair into sections and brushing them out with considerable deftness. Sometimes, he stops to run his fingers through it instead, which manages to make you immensely uncomfortable. Over time, his breathing becomes a bit labored, and you notice his hands shaking as he finishes up and puts the brush down beside you. You wait, patiently.

After a couple of seconds pass of pure stillness, you feel his breath tickling the back of your neck. Slowly, he inhales, languishing in your scent, and goosebumps spread all over your body. He grabs you by the waist and begins to pull you backward, causing an awkward shuffle until you finally get placed into his lap. Your spine is perfectly straight, preventing your back from touching his chest until he places his hand squarely on yours and pushes you back, making sure you're in full contact with him. The sheets hiss as he shifts his legs to be fully extended in front of him, so your legs brush against each other's and you're in full contact with him.

His fingers feel rough as they slowly drag against your neck, and you suppress the urge to giggle. They trace up to where your pulse is and press down gently and linger there for a moment and slowly glide up until they're touching your bottom lip, absentmindedly dipping in slightly. After what felt like a lifetime of silence except for Murray Franklin's droning and Arthur's breathing, you nearly jump out of your skin when he speaks.

"When you're done with all of those tapes, let me know," he mumbles. You think about asking where the hell his cigarette went, but you keep your mouth shut.

"There's a really special one I want you to see." His hand now slowly strokes your cheek, and it takes a second for you to formulate the words you want.

"Okay," you say, voice as soft as a silk sheet. "Okay."

He strokes your cheek a few more times before deciding to speak again.

"Open your mouth."

Internally, you cringe, but you know you have no other choice but to go along with it. You open your mouth a little - enough to do... whatever it is he's planning, but it's not quite wide open either. His finger slides in easily and his lips touch your ear as he whispers.

"Now suck on it."

You obey the command and hate every second of it, expecting some follow-up, but it doesn't come. He's silent, seeming to quietly observe what you're doing as you focus all your energy into sucking but also not thinking too much about it. It's hard to place what his finger tastes like. A funny feeling spreads across you, a mixture of disgust and fear that leaves your fingertips tingling.

"Good girl!" His voice is cheery as he pulls out his finger, leaving your mouth feeling strangely empty. He puts his hands around your waist as he clumsily slides you off his lap, standing up abruptly and glancing at the tapes while he adjusts his suit. You adjust your pants to the best of your ability while you watch him carefully. 

"You want to go outside, don't you?" His voice is low and condescending. There's a beat before he continues.

"I can't let you outside _now,_ kitten." He reaches forward and plays with a spare strand of your newly-brushed hair. "In the future, I might. We have to see how things go," he croons. (What are "things"? You know by this point it's going to be a mystery up until those "things" start happening to you.) You initially show an unusual degree of interest in the floor, but glance up to him. He looks straight into your eyes before turning around and heading towards the door. At the last second, he turns around and lunges toward you, hand raised. You flinch.

He stops mere inches from your face and leans back, laughing uproariously at you. It's a solid 10 seconds of nonstop laughter, and you laugh desperately, too, which is rapidly becoming a survival tactic of sorts for you. When he finishes, his eyes are soft and his voice is tender.

"You're so _cute,_ " he purrs before leaving the room and locking the door behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> follow me at synthwavegoodbye on tumblr. it's not a Joker blog but i'm lonely


End file.
